Bluebeard's Castle

Book 0: Verso Fiction

by Anna Biller

Genres: General Fiction; Feminist; Gothic

Synopsis

Bluebeard gets a feminist Gothic makeover in this subversive take on the famous French fairy tale — from the acclaimed director of The Love Witch, and for fans of Jane Eyre

When the successful British mystery writer Judith Moore meets Gavin, a handsome and charming baron, at a birthday party on the Cornish coast, his love transforms her from a bitter, lonely young woman into a romance heroine overnight. After a whirlwind honeymoon in Paris, he whisks her away to a secluded Gothic castle. But soon she finds herself trapped in a nightmare, as her husband’s mysterious nature and his alternation between charm and violence become increasingly frightening. 

As Judith battles both internal and external demons, including sexual ambivalence, psychological self-torture, gaslighting, family neglect, alcoholism, and domestic abuse, she becomes increasingly addicted to her wild beast of a husband. Why do women stay in abusive relationships? The answer can be found in the tortured mind of the protagonist, whose richly layered fantasy life parallels that of the female Gothic romance reader. Filled with dark humor and evocative imagery, Bluebeard’s Castle is a subversive take on modern romance and Gothic erotica.

Release date: October 10, 2023

Publisher: Verso

Print pages: 384

Sample

 

1.

Fleeing the Castle

Some husbands are pussycats, some are dullards or harmless rogues, and some are Bluebeards. Judith still wasn’t sure which type she had married. But she wasn’t taking any chances, so she decided to run away.

She hurried through the giant oak front doors and tripped down the wide shallow steps flanked with stone lions, shivering in her thin gown and pulling her cloak more closely about her. And as she set her suitcases down and gazed up at the magnificent castle towering against the night sky, she was seized with an aching sense of loss. She didn’t know why she should be sad to leave Manderfield; most of her time here had been fraught with anxiety and fear. But leaving Manderfield was leaving him, and she still loved him—an inconvenient fact that would take years of psychoanalysis to sort out. Or so others might scoff, laughing at her neurasthenic and euphoric obsessions. But how was she to blame for loving him? No woman could have resisted him, once he had set his sights on her.

She had wanted so desperately for things to work out. He had whisked her here, to this desolate place which was to have been their fortress, their haven, their fairy-tale castle. It was ironic that she had allowed herself to imagine a happily-ever-after marriage for herself in the first place. She had never believed in love, partly because her parents had loved neither their children nor one another. They were rich, attractive, narcissistic bullies who had destroyed both their marriage and their children’s sense of self-worth. Judith, under their influence, had also rejected love, although she had written about it extensively in her books.

At twenty-six, she was the author of seven Gothic novels containing images of windswept moors and crumbling castles full of brooding men and glamorous women, often with poisonous loves and unhappy endings. Her stories helped her to process her lonely childhood, her parents’ cruel marriage, her fascination with death, and the legacy of her cold but beautiful mother, after whom she modeled her heroines. And yet despite having delved so deeply into the subject of love in her books, any conscious desire for romance had remained latent in her … until she had met him.

He had been different—a man simply too good to be true. He had love-bombed her to within an inch of her life, and she had metamorphosed from a plain, unhappy, bookish girl into a beautiful romance heroine, practically overnight.

And then she began to wonder if she had married a Bluebeard.

As the moonlight spilled across her face, which had grown gaunt from self-starvation and suffering, Judith reflected on the grim reality of her situation. She was not normally one to run from difficult situations. She had always fought for what she wanted, and until now, she had been certain that she could fix anything wrong in her marriage through sheer force of will. In fact, winning his undying love in the face of insuperable barriers had become a game to her, a battle she felt sure to win. But now she had no choice: flight was her only option. Because if she remained, her husband was going to kill her.

My husband is going to kill me. She repeated this to herself over and over again, and the tears coursed down her cheeks. No matter how many times she said it, she couldn’t believe it. It all seemed like a bad dream, or like something that was happening to a character in one of her novels and not to herself, and yet the evidence was all there.

He had procured a special poison to murder her with, and she had found it hidden in a drawer. Plus, he collected weapons—both guns and knives—so the poison wasn’t even necessary. There were few people around Manderfield, and he could easily arrange to be alone with her, so that a gunshot would never be heard. Besides, he was a hunter, so he could always claim that any shot fired had been an accident. He could also facilitate a slip in the bath, or a tumble out of the window, or he could simply choke the life out of her. And then there was the expanse of woods behind the house, where no one would hear her scream.

She didn’t know when he would try to kill her, or what method he would use, but she feared her life was in danger each moment she remained at the castle. He could return at any instant and mow her down with his car as she stood there, blinded by his headlights.

And yet she hesitated. Was he really going to kill her, or was it all in her head? Even now, she couldn’t be sure. Like many young women, she tended to imagine the worst about men, and sometimes she blew her fears out of proportion. But when women worried about men, it wasn’t just paranoia—it was a safety mechanism. Being too careful was better than winding up dead. Still, sometimes you could make a mistake and end up demonizing the wrong man.

As she stood before the pain-haunted castle, shivering in the night air, she tried to go back to the beginning and to sort out when and how her life had gone all pear-shaped. She remembered the day they met, and the way he had looked at her, and how it had filled her with a mad ecstasy, which in retrospect had been a nervous breakdown.

But the entire day had been unusual and upsetting. She and her sister Anne had been invited to a week-long celebration for their cousin Victoria’s birthday in Cornwall, at a castle hotel on the beach. Judith had been happy for the diversion, for she had just broken up with her boyfriend Tony for the second time, and this last split had been especially painful. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t fall in love with Tony. Yet somehow he always boomeranged back to her, and she was afraid she might get stuck with him out of simple inertia.

But Tony had followed her there. He wouldn’t let her go.

2.

A Good Catholic Girl

Judith stood gaping at Tony as he entered her room. Why had he come? They had said goodbye for the last time. But here he was in her room with its antique furniture, green velvetflock wallpaper, and gilt moldings, having made the six-hour journey from London to Cornwall. He was obviously expecting something. What did he want? Sex? Validation? Or was he planning to gaslight her into thinking that nothing had changed and they were still together?

Tony was a doctor. Judith’s father, Sir Wilfred, pleased with his bedside manner during a minor gallbladder surgery he’d performed on the old gentleman, had invited him to a small dinner party the previous summer at the family’s estate in Devon. She had liked Tony right away, and he in turn had quickly fallen in love with her in a puppy-dog sort of way. He had never met a writer before, and he was enormously impressed with her, adoring her wit and imagination, laughing at her jokes, and hanging on her every word.

But although she was charmed by his intelligence, kindness, and good looks—he resembled nothing so much as a model in a 1940s menswear catalogue—she just couldn’t muster up the energy to fall in love with him. Their interactions felt safe and dull, and she didn’t know how to turn her feelings for him into love. But she was flattered by his attentions, and being with him was better than being alone. So she dutifully dated him, and she tolerated his kisses, and it all meant very little to her. She always hoped that something he said or did would create a spark in her, but everything continued on the same dreary plane.

That is, until her sister Anne let it slip that Sir Wilfred had arranged their meeting as a potential love match. Her family had always considered her unattractive, and she saw her father’s gesture as an act of charity for a daughter he considered ugly and unmarriageable. She had found it hard to believe that a handsome, well-adjusted, successful man like Tony could take an interest in her, and she had always assumed that he was merely toying with her affections or making fun of her. And now, with the added paranoia that he might be being paid by her father to make love to her, she unceremoniously dumped him. He eventually won her back by convincing her that his feelings for her were genuine, but a few months later, feeling bored and restless, she dumped him again.

Now Tony was gazing at her with something like adoration mixed with hurt. They stood facing one another, she in her sporty designer skirt and sweater, he in his summer chinos and linen shirt. The sound of guests talking and laughing, and snatches of vintage Latin music, wafted through the window. Finally Judith broke the ice. “Why did you come here, Tony?” She had the type of diction that comes from good British education and breeding—it was one of the things that had made him fall in love with her.

“Can’t we try again, Judith?”

The pain in his voice hurt her, but she steeled herself against it. “What’s the point? I’m not in love with you.” She turned to the brown leatherette-and-wood bar and opened the lid of the plastic marbled ice bucket. Judith never minced words with Tony; she always said exactly what she wanted to say, knowing he’d understand. She held out a glass. “Want a drink?”

“No. You know I never drink during the day.”

She felt his sad eyes on her. There was a heavy silence as she plunked ice cubes into the cut crystal glass with the silver tongs. Then he stood behind her and placed his hands firmly on her shoulders. “How can you know what love is when you haven’t tried it?” he murmured into her ear.

She knew what Tony meant by love—he meant sex. And it was true that she had never tried it. She had experimented with boys at school, and some girls, but she had never yet met anyone with whom she wanted to have sex. Sex, to her, was sacred. She had explored every inch of her body and learned all of its delightful ins and outs, but the person she gave herself to would be the person she wanted to spend her life with.

She emptied a tiny bottle of vodka from the minibar into her glass, and filled the rest with orange juice. She stirred it and took a sip, pretending his hands weren’t gripping her shoulders like a vise. “You mean sex. But why would I want to have sex when I’m not in love?”

Suddenly he pivoted her around, planting a firm kiss on her lips. She neither yielded to it nor pushed him away, but simply went limp. She was used to these kisses, and she tried to get into them, but she couldn’t; neither did she want to hurt him by repulsing him outright.

When he spoke again, his voice was husky and romantic. “Stop being a good Catholic girl. Or marry me and find out.”

She sighed. “So you did come here for sex.”

He removed his hands from her shoulders as if they’d been burned. “Of course not! How can you say that?”

She stirred her drink. “You’re suggesting that I have sex with you to find out if I’m in love with you. But what if we have sex and I still don’t love you?”

She was sure her words would cause him to retreat in embarrassment, but he had driven six hours to see her, and he wasn’t about to give up so easily. He shifted to a tone of pleading tenderness. “Judith, what do you want? Tell me so I can give it to you.”

She laughed. “What do I want? You mean, in one sentence?”

Tony looked mortified. He walked away a few paces to gather his thoughts. “Sorry. That was stupid. I know I can be dense at times. But I love you.”

“You say that you love me, but I don’t feel that you love me. When you look at me, I just feel sort of dead. Why don’t you ever tell me I’m beautiful?”

This time, Tony was the one who laughed. “Of course you’re beautiful,” he said with a condescending smile. “But why do you need me to say it?”

Judith frowned. Tony thought he was being modern by refusing to praise her looks. But his response made her feel like a blob, the way she had when her mother had dressed her doll-like sister as a girl, curling her long, dark, lustrous hair, and Judith as a boy, cropping her fine mousy hair close to her head. No one had ever told her she was beautiful, but the man she married would certainly need to say it—or at least to think it. Otherwise, what did he want her for? For her willingness to be his lifelong maid, cook, therapist, babymother, and servant? Or as a consolation prize for not being able to capture the interest of the type of woman that men actually dream about?

She couldn’t bear to look at him. “Tony, you’re a nice person, but I’m afraid you don’t understand women.”

He knew he had made another gaffe, but he didn’t fully grasp what he’d done wrong. “Sorry. I keep putting my foot in it. I may be a bit thick, but my feelings are genuine. I’m sure it’s all just some silly misunderstanding. Can’t we talk it out?”

Judith felt a crushing disappointment. Part of her had hoped that Tony would say something original or ignite the flame of her desire, but she should have known better; it was the same old Tony, and they were on the same old carousel, going round and round.

“There’s nothing left to say.”

“All right, Judith. When you need me, just call. I’ll always be here for you.”

She smiled, grateful that he was making a graceful exit. “Thank you, Tony. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye.” He took her by the shoulders and planted another unwanted kiss on her lips.

She went limp again, and his face registered a look of hurt and disappointment. Then he turned on his heel and walked away.

She was sorry to see him go. After all, Tony was a good man.

She located the castle chapel and prayed. It was small but atmospheric, with a lofty vaulted ceiling. A large painting of Christ on the cross graced the altar, along with fresh roses and tapers burning in brass holders. She sat on a pew, fingering her beads and making the sign of the cross. She prayed the rosary, and the ritual helped greatly to restore her mind to tranquility.

As she rose to leave, she saw a man standing in the doorway. Due to the lighting, he seemed haloed like the Christ painting on the altar. She stopped and froze, intimidated by the sight of his tall, broad-shouldered frame blocking the exit.

Their eyes met, and suddenly she felt weak and powerless. Not because he was so tall and strong, nor because he was so breathtakingly handsome—although he was certainly all of those things. It was the way he was looking at her that took her breath away. He was gazing at her with the look of smoldering passion that men get when they don’t care what happens to them—if their wife leaves them or their house burns down or they are killed—as long as their gaze finds its desired object. His glance created an electrical charge in her, making her body feel quiveringly alive.

They stood staring at one another for a few moments, and everything else seemed to melt away. Then she came back to herself and moved towards the door. He stepped aside, and she smiled and walked past him, feeling his eyes burning into her back as she walked away.

The experience was unsettling and frightening, but thrilling. For the first time in her life, she felt like the type of woman that men desire. This man had looked at her as if she were the most exciting woman alive, and it had helped heal her wounded vanity after her deflating encounter with Tony. She crossed the lobby and wandered over to the pool area, where she ordered a cocktail at the bar to take the edge off her disappointment about Tony. It’s all such a charade, she thought, this pretending to be in love just to avoid being alone. I want to love him, but you can’t force yourself to fall in love with someone, let alone marry them, just because they want you to. Yet Tony seems to think it is a good enough reason. Why does he think his feelings alone are strong enough to sustain a marriage? Don’t both people have to feel something? Is that what Tony really wants—just to love me in his one-sided way, regardless of how I feel about it? She went over these thoughts in an endless loop in her mind, drowning her sorrows in vodka and schnapps.

The bar was adjacent to the pool, at the end of which was a structure with a turreted stone roof and filigreed wood columns, styled like an Indian palace. A hill with wild grasses and evergreen oaks sloped above, and potted palms gave the area a lush tropical feeling. But the picturesque atmosphere did nothing to lift her mood. She sipped her drink on a tall stool and watched the guests walking to and fro, or reclining on lounge chairs in their designer resort togs. She looked about her, but she didn’t recognize anyone she knew.

Suddenly she noticed that two men standing next to her had stopped talking and were staring intently at something. She followed their gaze, and she saw her sister Anne standing at the edge of the pool in a bathing suit. It was freezing on the English coast even in the middle of summer, and no one else was sunbathing or swimming, so she was creating quite a spectacle. She dove into the pool, gliding effortlessly through the water and emerging gracefully at the other end. Then she hoisted herself onto the concrete, pulling off her swim cap and tossing out her long chestnut locks, her figure perfect in her white Burberry bikini.

Anne resembled their mother Ava: tall and slim, with a graceful figure, long, shapely legs, a tiny waist, long, dark, shiny hair, porcelain skin, high cheekbones, striking dark blue eyes, a perfectly sculpted nose, a rosebud mouth, and a movie-star jaw in the mold of Constance Bennett or Gene Tierney. Ava had been a famous model, and then a famous society beauty, and Anne had followed in her footsteps, becoming first a child model, and then a print and runway model.

According to the universe, Anne and Ava were great beauties, and Judith was a nothing. Everywhere she went men and women used to gush, “Your mother is so beautiful!” And although she resented the fact that she herself never sent people into raptures with her beauty, she greatly admired her mother for her commitment to herself as a work of art. To Ava, being lovely was the highest pinnacle a woman could achieve. Everyone had wanted to photograph her, to paint her. She had appeared on the covers of a number of fashion magazines and had been a muse for a legion of famous artists and photographers. She had spent a great deal of time crafting her image, and it showed. She loved to quote Marlene Dietrich, who had famously said, “I dress for the image. Not for myself, not for the public, not for fashion, not for men.”

Now all of the men around the pool were staring at Anne. Some stared openly, many surreptitiously under their brows or with a side-eye, but they were all acutely aware of her presence through a sort of animal instinct. Her swimsuit-model corporeality put the men into instant competition with one another, and like Penelope’s suitors, each imagined himself the one who would knock out his rivals and win her love with his superior strength or wit. For in each man’s mind, regardless of his other attachments, this woman belonged exclusively to him.

Anne, aware of being watched, performed her movements with a studied grace. Spotting Judith, she slipped on her mules where they had been tossed under a lounge chair, grabbed her towel, her Dolce & Gabbana cover-up and beach bag, and her pink Versace straw hat, and waltzed over to the bar where Judith was finishing her cocktail. “Why don’t you go for a swim, Judith?” she said. “The water’s delicious!”

“It’s too cold to swim.”

“You really should. It’s wonderfully bracing.”

“And have all the men compare my figure with my sister’s? No thanks, Anne.”

“Stop dramatizing. You have a lovely figure! Besides, no one is looking at you.”

“That’s right, Anne,” said Judith bitterly. “No one is looking at me.”

Anne stared blankly at her as if she had no idea what she meant. Then she wrapped herself in a towel and rummaged in her bag for sunscreen, applying it liberally to her shoulders. “My skin burns to a crisp in the sun! I’ll be a lobster in a minute!”

She smoothed the white cream over her shoulders and arms, glancing around the poolside at the men observing her every move, and assuming a vacant-eyed stare.

Suddenly, Judith got the feeling that she herself was being watched. She turned her head and saw the man from the chapel sitting at the end of the bar, gazing fixedly at her. She blushed, feeling self-conscious. Perhaps she shouldn’t have stared at him for so long. At the time she had been powerless to look away, but now she was afraid she had started something she couldn’t finish.

Anne was speaking to the bartender now. “Pellegrino with lime, please. And another of whatever my sister is having.”

Judith turned away from the man. “I want a sex on the beach.”

“What??” cried Anne.

“My cocktail. It’s called sex on the beach.”

“Oh.”

The bartender nodded and pulled out a highball glass, adding ice, orange juice, cranberry juice, peach schnapps, and vodka, and wedging an orange slice onto the rim.

Judith glanced over to see the handsome man smiling at her, amused. She flirted back in spite of herself, and then she turned away as the bartender handed her the drink. She sipped it with a straw, starting to become tight. This was her third cocktail within an hour on an empty stomach, and the bartender had been generous with the vodka.

She put down her drink and sighed. “I broke up with Tony today.”

“Again?”

“He’s like crabgrass. He keeps coming back. I can’t believe he came all the way down here when he wasn’t invited.”

“And you sent him away? Why are you so mean to Tony? He’s so nice.”

“I’m not mean to Tony! And he’s not that nice. He’s just a boring doctor. Anyway, you and John met normally, but Tony was picked for me. Did Dad really think I couldn’t find my own man? It’s so medieval.”

“What are you on about? Tony wasn’t picked for you. Anyway, who cares how you met him? He’s a good man. You’re not likely to do any better.”

Judith was enraged. “Why do you think I can’t do any better? Why exactly, Anne?”

Anne looked away in disgust. “Judith, you’re causing a scene!”

Just then, Anne’s husband John walked up: dapper, slim, upper-class, good-looking, wearing casual designer clothing. “Hello, darling,” he said, pecking his wife on the cheek. “I’m ready for lunch now.”

“It’s about time. I’m famished! Swimming gives me such an appetite. I think I’ve gained a pound already on this trip. Do you think I’m getting fat?” Anne turned this way and that, showing herself off. The men at the pool took notice.

John laughed. “No, Sweetie. You’re perfect!” He slapped her bottom, and she squealed with delight.

“Ooh, cheeky! Anyway, I am getting fat. No dressing on my salad today! Are you joining us, Judith?”

“No thanks.”

“All right then, see you at tea.” Anne and John turned and made their way towards the restaurant.

Judith looked after her sister, resentment and envy welling up in her heart. ...